


Scent of a Sociopath

by Ginger_Cat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Fluff and Angst, Heart-to-Heart, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlock Interacting with Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2992364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Cat/pseuds/Ginger_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaves his scent wherever he goes. And John can’t get enough of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You've got ants

                John Watson had known a few people in his lifetime who, for whatever reason, excreted their own scent so strongly that it would permeate all types of fabrics and linger for hours in room after they were gone. John had dated at least one woman like that, that he could remember, and had thoroughly enjoyed being able to bury his nose into her pillow long after she’d left his bed.

 _A bit creepier, this_ , John thought, as he stood in the laundry room with Sherlock’s slept-in sheets pressed to his face. _Just a bit._

                Sherlock was one of those people. It wasn’t a bad smell, nor was it a _good_ smell. Wasn’t cologne, either; in the early days, John had made a couple of half-hearted attempts to explore the medicine cabinet and top of Sherlock’s dresser to see if there was a bottle there, but he’d never discovered one. To be fair, he hadn’t looked _that_ hard—didn’t really think it was cologne, anyway. No, the smell was, simply, _his._

                John sighed and closed his eyes, breathing in deep.

***

                “I’m fumigating your rooms,” Mrs. Hudson declared, exiting Sherlock’s bedroom and tottering down the hall.

                “Fumigating?” Sherlock popped up off the couch and spun around to stare at her. “Why? And where did you come from? How long have you been in here?”

                John sighed from the chair, glancing past his newspaper. “She’s been here for an hour, Sherlock, cleaning. Haven’t you heard her?”

                “Ah, so that was all that banging about?” Sherlock stood up. “Mrs. Hudson, I forbid you from fumigating this flat. Do you know how many experiments I have that will be completely _ruined_ if—“

                “You’ll have to clear out the lot of them! You have _ants_ in there,” she pointed down the hall, “like you would not believe. It’s absolutely disgusting, and I’ll not have it in my building!”

                “Of course I have ants!" Sherlock retorted, his arms flailing about. “I’m trying to study their effects on the decomposition of—“

                “You mean you _brought_ them in?”

                “Of course I did!”

                John let his head fall forward into his newspaper. He turned in his chair. “You did _what?_ ”

                “Oh, go back to your ‘human interest’ rubbish,” Sherlock spat. “You don’t even live here anymore.”

                John turned back to the paper, testily. “Is that supposed to be an insult? _I_ get to return to an ant-free home, tonight.”

                “Well, throw it out,” Mrs. Hudson ordered. “Whatever experiment you’re doing, throw it out, and take all of your other experiments somewhere else. Because I’m having the exterminator come next week, and that’s final.” She turned and stomped down the stairs.

                Sherlock blinked at her retreating figure. “When did _she_ become so demanding?”

                John snorted from his chair. “Probably when she found out you infested the building with ants.”

                Sherlock glared at him again, then spun around with a little “Harrumph!” and began to pile scientific equipment onto the kitchen table. John realized that he was being extra loud on purpose, and was determined to ignore it… until the glass beakers came out and started clanging together in a cacophony of ear-splitting noise than drowned out all coherent thought—

                “Alright, that’s enough!” John shouted, snapping his newspaper shut and scrambling up out of the chair. He turned to see Sherlock frozen over the kitchen table, a beaker in each hand, clearly just standing there banging them together for no other reason than to bother him. “You git,” John growled. “Do you know how bloody annoying you are?”

                Sherlock carefully placed the beakers back onto the table. “Yes." He looked at John out the corner of his eye.

                John opened his mouth to scold him again, but somehow a laugh escaped him instead. “Such a child,” he muttered.

                Sherlock’s eyes turned back to the table, a smile of satisfaction playing on his lips. Then, he frowned. “You should probably call Mary to bring the car over."

                “And why would I do that?”

                “Well, just look at all this!” He gestured to the multitude of unidentified rotting materials and piles of microscope slides and boxes of chemicals. “We’re not going to fit all this in the cab with us.”

                John narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘us’?”

                “Well, it's only economical for us to ride together, as we're going to the same place.”

                “Oh yeah? And where's that? _”_

                Sherlock sighed, exasperated. “Your house, of course! Really, John, we just _had_ this conversation. Mrs. Hudson is fumigating, I need somewhere to live for a week. Do keep up!” He went back to sorting through his experiments.

                “And why is that ‘somewhere’ _my_ house?” John grumbled.

                “John, please.” Sherlock gave him a look. “Where _else_ would I go?”


	2. Why are you looking at me?

                When John and Sherlock walked in the door, a couple boxes of equipment in tow (John had managed to convince Sherlock to consolidate all his experiments so that they could take a cab after all), Mary barred their way with her arms crossed and her feet planted firmly on the ground.

                “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

                John and Sherlock both stared at her, neither of them wanting to respond. Sherlock leaned forward and murmured into John’s ear. “You _did_ tell her I was coming, didn’t you?”

                John swallowed. No, he hadn’t. He knew she would say no, absolutely no, no way Sherlock Holmes was going to stay with them for a whole week and certainly no way he was going to bring dangerous experiments into her home. The baby _this_ , the baby _that_ , etcetera, etcetera.

                But if they just showed up and she was put on the spot, she would agree to it. John would catch hell later on, for putting her in that position, but she would do it. She was too nice not to. _Should probably feel a bit bad about manipulating her like that_ , he thought. _Probably._

                “Erm, Sherlock’s flat is uninhabitable at the moment,” John said. “He needs a place to stay.”

                Mary’s eyes grew big as saucers. “For… for how long?” She eyed the boxes in their arms.

                “A week, Mary,” Sherlock told her, observing her panic.

                “Oh!” Mary let out a relieved breath. “Only a week, then?”

                “Mrs. Hudson’s fumigating the flat,” John explained. “Apparently, ‘someone’ brought an entire colony of ants into the building.”

                Sherlock scowled. “It was _for_ an _—“_

                “I see,” Mary interrupted, looking at the boxes again. “So what are all _these_ for?”

                Sherlock puffed himself up. “I’m in the middle of several time-sensitive experiments; I simply can’t abandon them for seven days.”

                Mary snorted. “Well, _we’re_ in the middle of raising a toddler, who puts everything she can get her hands on into her mouth. So no experiments allowed, I’m afraid.”

                Sherlock opened his mouth to argue.

                “Eh-eh-eh!” Mary cut him off before he could start. “You want to stay here? Then the experiments have to go.”

                Sherlock turned to whine at John.

                “Hey,” John said, turning back to go out the door. “Don’t look at me. We’re lucky she’s even letting _you_ stay.”

                _We_. John bit the inside of his lip, hoping no one else noticed. “ _We’re_ lucky,” as in, John was lucky, too, to have Sherlock living with him again. There was an awkward pause, and John glanced from face to face trying to decide if— _yup_. They’d noticed. _Of course they would,_ John thought bitterly. _Observant pricks._

                “Just put them in the car,” Mary ordered, her mood gone sour. “My darling husband can find a place to store them at the surgery.”

***

                When they came back into the house, Mary was making dinner and there was a barely-older-than-baby girl sitting in the middle of the living room, surrounded by colorful toys.

                “Hello love,” John greeted her, getting down on his knees and bending over to kiss the top of her head.

                “Da-da,” Anna responded, smiling. Then she grabbed two orange blocks and proceeded to speak to him in a string of unintelligible gibberish.

                “Oh yes, of course,” John said to her, playing along. “Yes, indeed. Oh, really?” he interjected, whenever she paused. He glanced up and smiled at Sherlock, who was watching them both with interest.

                “Can you really understand her?” he asked.

                John chuckled. “Of course not, but I _pretend_ like I can. That’s all she really wants, anyway, someone to sit there and listen to what she has to say. Don’t you, Anna?” he asked her, pinching her cheek. “Not unlike someone else I know,” he added, glancing in Sherlock’s direction.

                Sherlock ignored him, instead taking off his scarf and coat. “Well,” he said, “I bet I can tell you _exactly_ what she’s saying.” And before John could blink, Sherlock had flopped down on the carpet and was resting his chin on his palms, staring directly into Anna’s eyes. She blinked at him, a little surprised at his face suddenly in front of hers, but then began to talk again.

 _Can he really tell?_ John wondered, watching them. _No, no way_. Yet, he could help thinking… if anyone could decipher baby-speak, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

                Sherlock studied her carefully, silently, as she smacked her toys together and babbled away. And then his face broke into a genuine, eye-crinkling grin.

                “What?” John asked, not able to keep from getting caught up in it.

                Sherlock laughed to himself, as if he had a secret. He sat up and continued to smile fondly at Anna. She looked up at him, and smiled back.

                “What?” Now Mary had come over, too, her interest piqued. “What did she say?”

                Sherlock turned to them, the remains of his delight still on his face. “Oh, nothing,” he said, struggling to control his expression. “Just that Mummy has been complaining about Daddy’s weight, and Daddy isn’t allowed biscuits anymore, but she’s seen him sneak them from the tin he’s hidden under her crib.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. “Apparently, Daddy told her not to tell Mummy, that it was their little secret.”

                Suddenly Anna shrieked a high-pitched response from the ground, looking for all the world like she was cross with Sherlock for tattling. John felt like making the same sound—especially when Mary turned to him with a face full of rage. “Oh, come on,” he huffed, his complexion growing pink. “He’s full of shite, just making stuff up for the hell of it—“

                “We’ll see about _that!_ ” Mary barked, and with another searing glare turned and rushed down the hall to Anna’s bedroom.

                “Mary—“ John started, standing up, “ _Mary_ —“ but she was long gone. “Thanks a lot!” he seethed, shooting Sherlock a scathing look.

                “Don’t thank me,” he said, glancing down at Anna. He winked at her and she shrieked again.

                “Oh you’re in top form today, aren’t you?” John growled. “Just _top_ form! Probably deduced that goddamn biscuit tin from some stupid crumbs on my sleeve or—“

                “OH MY GOD!”

                John cringed as Mary bellowed down the hall. They heard her stomping back and when she emerged, she was shaking the biscuits in his face. “I can’t _believe_ you! After we had that talk and—“

                John stood there and attempted to placate his wife, while Sherlock, in the meantime, smiled and quietly lay back on the floor to watch Anna and her blocks.

***

                _Well, that was quite an eventful evening_ , John thought later that night, as he carried his sleeping daughter to bed. _Though, “eventful” is putting it lightly._ “Borderline disastrous” would have probably been a more accurate description.

                First, Sherlock refused to sit down and eat dinner with them because he said he was “not hungry this week”—which got him close to a boxed ear from the lady of the house, who hotly told him that they ate dinner as a family, and when Sherlock was in _her_ home, he had no choice but to abide by those rules. Sherlock made a face but conceded, sitting down next to Anna’s high chair, looking quite cross.

                Next, Anna had a rather fussy night, also refusing to eat. She finally whacked the spoon full of food out of Mary’s hand and into Sherlock’s lap—which wouldn’t have been entirely awful if Sherlock hadn’t then turned to her and cooed, “That’s perfectly alright, Annalise; I don’t want to eat, either.”

                Mary’s face had grown thunderous, and she’d shifted her furious gaze to John. John, in turn, had made the mistake of asking, “Why are you looking at me?”, which was apparently the wrong thing to say; Mary made that quite clear later on in the night after Anna began to scream for no good reason (probably because she was hungry, John thought) and John had looked to Mary for help; and instead of getting up from her chair as she normally would have done, she turned a too-innocent face towards him and mocked, “Why are you looking at me?” before going back to her magazine.

                John had caught Sherlock smirking at that, and had growled low. “See how you like it!” he’d barked, and practically threw his blubbering child into Sherlock’s lap. But to John’s surprise, Sherlock made a silly face and lifted her up above his head, and she stopped crying. “Well, bloody hell,” John had said, in awe. “We should have you around more often.”

                Mary’s glare in response threatened to burn a hole through his skull.

                Finally, Sherlock’s arms had tired and he’d brought Anna down to his lap, where she promptly fell asleep with her mouth wide open, snoring like an old man. John had laughed at Sherlock’s incredulity. “I suppose it’s bedtime,” he’d said, and carefully picked up his daughter to take her to her room.

***

                As John carried the girl down the hall, he turned and whispered, “Alright, love, time for bed,” into her hair and got an unexpected whiff of Sherlock’s scent. He stopped and sniffed again—it must have been from her sleeping on Sherlock’s lap. He didn’t see Sherlock much, these days, and he’d forgotten how Sherlock’s smell lingered like that.

                The smell was nostalgic, for John. It smelled like their place on Baker Street, like all the time he’d spent there, sleeping odd hours and arguing about cases and blogging about deductions and grabbing his coat to fly out the door into danger at a moment’s notice. It smelled like wool overcoats and blue scarves and purple shirts and curly hair. It smelled like a genius, annoying-as-fuck sociopath. It smelled like the best years of John’s life. And the thought that Sherlock left it here, on his daughter, in _his_ house—that John might come home tomorrow from work and smell it as he opened the door—elicited a little happy pang in his heart that he didn’t quite comprehend.

                He gently lowered himself into the rocking chair and rocked his little girl in her slumber, his face buried in her hair, until the scent faded away.


	3. It's got me remembering

                “I can’t take it anymore,” Mary whispered after she’d pulled him round the corner of the hallway. “He’s driving me insane.”

                John sighed. “I know, Mary. He’s going home soon.”

                “It’s not that I don’t like him,” Mary replied, quickly, glancing around to the couch where Sherlock was sitting with their daughter on his lap and his laptop open in front of them. “You know that. It’s just… I can’t have him in the house, John. I _can’t_.”

                “Look, Annalise.” They heard Sherlock’s voice boom from the sitting room. “This one’s a _double_ homicide!”

                Mary turned pale. “He’s reading the news reports to her. _Again._ There’d better not be all those horrid pictures this time—“

                “I told you, I’m going to have a talk with him!” There was an edge to John’s voice that he had meant to smooth, and Mary narrowed her eyes.

                “I think I’ll take Anna and go visit Molly for the evening,” she said, after a beat. “Give everyone a break, give you a chance to have that talk, yeah?”

                John’s eyes lit up before he could stop them. “Yeah! I mean,” he cleared his throat, “if you’d like… yeah, that could work.”

                Mary stared at him for a moment, then sighed and shook her head. “A bit less enthusiastic next time, darling, hm?”

                John let out a relieved sigh after she and Anna had left and the door was firmly closed behind them. It had been a stressful few days, but not in the way John had envisioned. He’d expected to be annoyed by Sherlock’s presence, by all his usual oddities: the hours spent awake in the middle of the night, talking to himself and pacing around; the way he left his dirty clothes in a pile outside the bathroom door while he showered (and became cross if he came out and no one had picked them up for him); the way he grazed for food in the refrigerator at odd times of the day, eating with the door wide open and his bum sticking out, paying zero attention to labels such as “FOR DINNER” or “MARY’S LEFTOVERS” (“I was going to eat that for lunch tomorrow! John! Control him!”); the random tramps they’d begun to find in their sitting room, lined up as Sherlock gave them each instructions and payment for their espionage services… the list went on and on.

                But, as it turned out, John was not annoyed by all that—instead, he was bothered by Mary’s reaction to it. _Which is a bit hypocritical_ , John thought; Mary’s reactions were much the same as John’s should have been, and what they indeed were when he’d lived with Sherlock all those years ago. She yelled, complained, stomped around, fumed quietly in the corner while Sherlock tried not to smirk with amusement.

                In reality, however, John’s reactions were much more in line with Sherlock’s; he’d also had quite a time getting his grin under control. Whenever Sherlock did something annoying and Mary flew off-the-handle, he and John would share a look and all but snigger into their hands, like schoolboys making mischief. John got several earfuls from his wife later on, and though he tried to be understanding, he was unable to feel any sort of sympathy for her—and it showed. They’d already had half a dozen domestics in the six days Sherlock had been staying with them.

                But now she was gone for the evening, and Anna was too, and he could breathe easy and just enjoy Sherlock’s company the way he’d wanted to do all week.

                “She’s going to yell at you again, you know,” Sherlock mused from the sofa, still surfing the internet on his laptop. “She expected you to tell her not to leave, and to make _me_ go out for the evening instead.”

                John felt his face grow hot, and he spun around. “No, she didn’t… did she?”

                Sherlock gave him a look.

                “Ugh.” John smacked his palms on his face in exasperation. “How am I supposed to _know_ that? Christ, I’ll never figure her out.” He sunk into the chair opposite.

                “Probably not,” Sherlock agreed.

                John glared at him through his fingers. “You could have helped me out, you know. Given me a tip or two before she left, so I wouldn’t look like such an insensitive prick.”

                “Yes, but then I wouldn’t have had you to myself tonight, would I?” Sherlock smiled over the top of his screen.

                For some reason, John blushed. It was something about the look Sherlock gave him, something about the way his eyes were dancing…. John was lucky that his hands were covering most of his face.

                When his skin had cooled, John let his hands slide slowly down his cheeks. “God, I need a drink,” he said, suddenly, and hopped out of the chair. He went to the kitchen and pulled a glass out of the cupboard, along with a bottle of scotch.

                “Aren’t you going to pour one for me, too?”

                John whirled around, suspiciously. “You never drink.”

                “That’s certainly not true.”

                “When? When was the last time you had a _drop_ of alcohol?”

                “The stag night, of course!”

                “Ha! Well, that’s all the incentive I need to keep you sober for the rest of your life.”

                Sherlock scowled at him from the couch. “Nonsense, I was not _that_ bad.”

                “You vomited all over a crime scene!”

                “Still solved it, though.”

                “Yeah, but not until ages later.”

                And then they were off, talking about the Mayfly Man, talking about other crimes and cases they’d solved throughout the years, reminiscing about times long passed. John poured Sherlock a bit of scotch after all, and the two of them soon made a substantial way down the bottle until they’d become awfully pink-cheeked and giggly.

                “What about that ridiculous woman who hid the letter under the rug?” John chuckled into his drink. “I can’t remember, how did you solve that one?”

                “She was a complete moron, that’s how,” Sherlock spat, and John snorted out another laugh. “Well, she was! Put the rug back the wrong way round. Can you believe that, John?” Sherlock leaned forward over the coffee table, his drink dangling in his hand. “Picked up the whole bloody rug just to shove one measly envelope underneath! I mean, all she had to do was just lift up the corner,” he mimed it in the air, “and slip it in! How can people be such _idiots_?”

                John shook his head in mock agreement, continuing to giggle. “People aren’t _you_ , that’s how. Ordinary people aren’t half as clever, or intelligent, or…” he trailed off.

                Sherlock sat back and put his feet up on the table. “You may continue.” He smiled. 

                But John’s smile had faded. He peered down at the bit of liquor still sloshing about in his tumbler. “It’s true, though, you know? There’s… there’s no one else like you.” He paused another moment, then sniffed and drained his glass. He looked up and his smile returned, but weaker, this time. "I've missed you, you know?"

                Sherlock’s face had grown perfectly still, impassive, the way it always did when he was observing something intently. This time it was John. _Let him_ , John thought, his mind a bit soft. _See what he sees._

                “I thought it was going to be a pain in my arse, you staying with us.” John leaned forward and poured himself a little more drink. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this train of thought, but it was sort of just bubbling out of him, and it felt right, so he kept on. “But you know, it hasn’t been.” He took another sip of scotch. “It’s been quite fun, actually.”

                “Mary hasn’t thought so.”

                John huffed a laugh. “Yeah… she’s having a normal human response.”

                Sherlock’s mouth ticked up. “And what are you having?” His eyes were sparkling again—expecting, John thought, another smart-arse reply.

                Instead, John stared at him for a long while. “You know, she saved me. I couldn’t… I found myself in a very strange way, after you died.” He rested his chin on his knuckles, thinking. “Do you know, I just didn’t like anyone, after that. You ruined it for me, Sherlock. Ruined _people_.”

                Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Indeed? And how did I manage to do that?”

                “Compared to you, everyone else was boring.”

                Sherlock laughed. It was a rarity, to make him laugh, and John let the sound wash over him. “You sound like me,” Sherlock told him, still chuckling as he sat up to fill his glass again.

                John watched his slender, alabaster hand grasp the bottle and tip it smoothly into the tumbler. He felt a little drunk. “I know,” he answered, trying not to slur. “And I hated you. For doing that.”

                Sherlock righted the bottle and carefully set it back on the table. “For what, exactly? For being _too_ interesting?” He tried another smile, but saw that John’s expression was serious.

                “For ruining my life.”

                Sherlock quietly put the glass to his lips.

                “I couldn’t connect any more, Sherlock,” John went on. “Anybody I talked to, even people I already knew, people I thought I cared about—I felt nothing. Nothing. I would look at them, hear their boring stories about their boring lives, and just be so disgusted, you know? None of it was stimulating. And then I thought, _he knew that_. He knew that I’d be like this, once he left. He knew no one else would compare, that I’d spend the rest of my life alone.

                “But then, Mary… God, she was like oxygen. Like a breath of fresh air. Like _gulps_ of it. She was the first person I’d met since you that I actually connected with, who interested me… and all of a sudden the blood was pounding in my veins again… life was _fun_ , again, with her.”

                John wasn’t sure if he’d made sense; not only was he inebriated, but he was rubbish at this stuff, and Sherlock usually took no interest in it, anyway. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, this—I’m past all this, I really am.” He pushed it away in the air. “It’s just this week, you being here… it’s got me remembering.”

                Sherlock stared down into his lap and drug a finger round the lip of his glass. “John…." He paused. "We have to stop punishing each other.”

                John looked back, surprised. “How do you mean?”

                Sherlock slid his glass onto the table and sat back again, pressing his palms together under his chin. “You have to stop punishing me for leaving. And I have to stop punishing you for moving on.”

                “Are you? Punishing me?”

                Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. “The reason you said you miss me… I’ve been trying to _make_ you miss me, all week. The private jokes, the old, annoying habits… I mean, John, I stopped leaving my clothes outside the loo ages ago!”

                John gaped at him. “So you’ve been manipulating me into missing you… by being a prat?”

                Sherlock’s eyes popped open, ridden with guilt. “Yes.” 

                John burst out laughing. “Oh, Sherlock. You _do_ care.” He giggled again, watching Sherlock squirm in his seat. “You know, in some ridiculously fucked-up way, that’s exactly _what_ I miss. You’ve got some pretty intricately twisted logic. And I love every bit of it. It’s fucking _fascinating_.”

                “You’re the only person in the world who thinks that. Most people hate me for it. Like Mary."

                John’s lips twisted. “You know, now that I think about it, you probably want it that way. You want her to hate you, because you think it will drive a wedge between me and her.” Sherlock glanced up sharply, but didn’t deny it. John felt a burst of satisfaction at being right. “When did that start, Sherlock? You used to _like_ Mary. You used to be all ‘buddy-buddy’ with her.”

                Sherlock’s hands fell down into his lap. “That was before.”

                “Before what?”

                “Before I realized I was losing you for good.”

                John’s face fell. “Oh.”

                He wanted to tell Sherlock that wasn’t true, that he’d never lose him, that they would be best friends for the rest of their lives. That he hadn’t lied when he said that nothing was going to change, by his marrying Mary. But the truth was Sherlock was right. It had been months since John had gone with him on a case; hell, barring the last time John was over, it had been months since he’d even set foot in 221B. And that wasn’t just because he’d been busy. He hadn’t gone because he knew that, when he did, all he’d think about was how much he wanted that life again—that rollercoaster, dangerously exiting life—and could never have it. Not that being a husband and father wasn’t thrilling in its own way… just not the way he wanted most.

                “I know,” John said, heavily. He felt an aching lump in his throat. _Great_ , he thought. _Just what I need right now, to start bloody crying_. “I thought I could do it, be married to her and still be best friends with you. But it seems I can’t. It’s just that… see, every time I’m with you, I just want to go back, you know? It makes me regret ever marrying her.” He stopped, horrified that he'd said that out loud. “Don’t… don’t mistake me…” he choked out. “I do love her. I do. I do, very much…”

                “I know, John.”

                John took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. The room had begun to spin, a bit. _Too much_ , John thought. _I drank too much tonight._ He leaned forward and set his glass on the table.

                “This is over, isn’t it?”

                John looked up at Sherlock through blurry eyes.

                “Our friendship, I mean,” Sherlock continued, quietly. “It’s over.”

                John gulped and sat back. “I suppose... I mean, I can’t live in both worlds, Sherlock. It’s got to be one or the other.”

                “Please, John.” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly laced with bitterness. “Don’t act as if it’s an actual _choice._  As if I’d have a chance, against her.”

                The lump forced itself up farther, expanding, spreading the ache to John’s eyes and nose. _Fuck._ “And _you_ don’t act like I’m abandoning you. You abandoned me first, remember?”

                Sherlock lay back on the couch, the top of his head thumping against the wall. He stared at the ceiling and sighed.

                “You’re right,” said John, feeling immensely tired all of a sudden. “You’re absolutely right, we’ve got to stop punishing each other. We can’t change the past. There’s no use wishing for it.”

                Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. Then, “I’ll always wish for it.”

                Mary chose that moment to come home. John didn’t know why, but when he heard her key in the lock, he jumped so far out of his chair that he nearly tripped. Sherlock, at least, remained seated and calmly collected the glasses and scotch bottle as if cleaning up from a leisurely nightcap. “Good evening, Mary,” he greeted.

                Mary shushed him and pointed to a sleeping toddler in her arms. She waved to John and then padded down the hall to put Anna into bed.

                John immediately looked to Sherlock, who was heading to the kitchen with their drinking equipment, thinking he would turn around and say _something_ more, but he did not. Instead, he carefully set the glasses in the sink, put the bottle back in the cupboard, and bid John a stoic goodnight before departing to the guest room.

                John stared after his disappearing figure, then at the empty couch in front of him. Its cushions were still wrinkled from where Sherlock had been sitting. His vision swam, with confusion and with his drunkenness. Somehow, not quite aware of the decision, he went to the sofa and collapsed into the leftover warmth, and turned his face toward the upholstery, and inhaled.


	4. Still a little left

                When John awoke in the morning, it was with a headache and a sense of dread at having to face his ex-best friend at the breakfast table. _Rubbish timing_ , he thought bitterly. _Couldn’t have waited to have that conversation until Sherlock moved out, could we?_

                John emerged from the bedroom, hoping that Sherlock had already gotten up and left for the day; but, alas, he found him in the kitchen, along with his wife and daughter. Sherlock was sitting next to Anna, attempting to help feed her and mostly getting the food everywhere but between her lips. “This is impossible!” he complained, moodily. “She keeps moving about, I can’t get a fix on her mouth!”

                Mary chuckled from the sink, where she was washing dishes. “Try playing Airplane with her,” she suggested.

                “’Airplane?’” Sherlock inquired, his eyebrows drawn forward. “What the devil is ‘Airplane?’”

                Mary tutted and rolled her eyes, then caught sight of John coming down the hall. “John, show him Airplane, for the love of God.” She turned back to the washing.

                John swallowed as Sherlock’s gaze met his, and he felt the tips of his ears grow hot with the awkwardness of it. _We’re not friends_ , John thought. _We’re not friends, anymore_. “Erm,” he started, “it’s where you pretend the spoon is an… an airplane…” John suddenly realized how ridiculous it sounded. “And you buzz your lips together, a bit, and say something like, ‘Open up, here it comes!’”

                Sherlock stared at him.

                “You know,” John continued, uncomfortably, “like, make it a game. Make it fun.”

                “Oh, just show him!” Mary barked, over her shoulder.

                John shuffled awkwardly to the chair on the other side of Anna and proceeded to reach out and grab Sherlock’s hand with his own. “It’s like this,” he instructed, and purposely didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes as he began to make airplane noises and swirled Sherlock’s hand round and round before diving the spoon into Anna’s mouth. “Incoming!” he cried, and the little girl’s eyes lit up as she opened her lips to take the bite. John looked up then, smiling, forgetting that he was supposed to be avoiding eye contact…

                Sherlock gave him a small, sad smile in return.            

                “Something like that,” John mumbled, feeling the rest of his face match his ears.

                “Oh, John, I forgot! Mrs. Hudson called,” Mary told him from the kitchen. “Sherlock’s flat is finished—he can go home tonight!” She practically sang it as she poured tea for each of them.

                “Oh,” said John, feeling his mouth suddenly gone thick. He swallowed. “Great.” He looked tentatively back at Sherlock, who was now avoiding _his_ eye. “Bzzz, bzzz,” Sherlock buzzed softly, beginning to play a perfect game of Airplane with the little girl.

***

                They brought the boxes up the stairs of 221B and John helped Sherlock unpack them, moving at a deliberately slow pace to make the visit last longer. He even went so far as to purposely put things in the wrong places, so that Sherlock scolded him and made him redo everything. But, eventually, it was all put away and there was no reason for John to stay—it was close to suppertime, anyway, and Mary would be wanting him home. He stood in the doorway, facing Sherlock, trying to hide his misery.

                “Well,” he said, clearing his throat and looking around, “I suppose I should be off, then.”

                Sherlock watched him through his grey-blue eyes. “Thank you, John,” he said. He lifted his hand and held it out for a shake goodbye.

                John stared down at it for a second—and pulled Sherlock into a hug instead.

                If it had been any other time, Sherlock might have tutted awkwardly into John’s ear, said something to the effect of “Well, now, there’s no need for _that_ ,” or he might have just grimaced and remained silent while John got his fill of human contact. But, in that moment, he instead lifted his arm and rested his palm along the center of John’s back.

                “I’m sorry,” John whispered. As he spoke, his nostrils were filled with that scent again... and he couldn’t help but breathe in a little deeper than he would have otherwise. He suddenly realized that this would probably be the last time he smelled it. “I’m so sorry.” He felt Sherlock’s fingers press a little more firmly into his shirt. “I know I promised you that things wouldn’t change…”

                “It’s not your fault,” Sherlock replied.

                John broke their embrace and tried to push away the tightness in his throat. “Christ,” he murmured. “Why does this feel like we’re bloody breaking up?” He stole a nervous glance at Sherlock and laughed, darkly. “Bloody ridiculous.”

                Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ve never broken up with anyone before.”

                John’s cheeks tinged pink. “Ah, well…” he trailed off, fiddling with the zip on his jacket.

                “Is it always this painful?”

                John looked up, surprised. “It... yeah,” he said, noticing that Sherlock’s mask of emotional indifference was markedly thinner than usual. “It is, when you love someone. It hurts like fucking hell.”

                Sherlock nodded.

                John took a deep breath and looked around behind him, at the door, knowing that he had to find a way to will his body to turn and match his head, to put one foot in front of the other and go home. _Come on_ , he said to himself, _Come on, John. Go. Your wife and daughter are waiting._

                Instead, he turned back. “I don’t want to leave.”

                Sherlock’s eyes widened. “So don’t,” he replied, and then looked a little surprised with himself. He swallowed, his expression growing more determined. “Don’t leave, John. Choose _me_.”

                John’s mouth fell open a little. “I…”

                He almost said “ _Yes_.” He almost did, because sod duty, sod responsibility. If he wanted to live his life as a confirmed bachelor with his sociopathic best friend (who, was, at the moment, completely reversing that diagnosis), why couldn’t he well do it? _Life is short_ , he thought to himself. _Too short not to do what I want._

                But John knew he couldn’t abandon duty or responsibility, because that was the stuff of which he was made. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he left his current life for his old one. He had a wife, a daughter. They needed him.

                “Goodbye, Sherlock,” he said, instead. And then, afraid that Sherlock’s reaction might truly break his heart, he turned and left the flat without another look back.

***

                When John arrived back home, he hung up his coat and kicked off his shoes and went to the kitchen to give Mary a kiss on the cheek. “What’s for supper?” he asked, with a smile.

                “Veggie lasagna,” she replied, smiling back. “Did you get him all settled in, then?”

                “Best that I could, anyway.”

                Mary nodded and turned back to the countertop. “Well, thank God he’s gone. I don’t know if I could have lasted one more day of his nonsense. Don’t know how you ever lived with that man.” She placed another layer of noodles in the pan. “Honestly, he’s lucky you’re friends with him… I could see him chasing off just about everyone else.”

                John felt his insides shrivel.

                “Food will be ready in five. Want to set the table?”

                “Uh… sure,” John replied, clearing his throat. “I, erm… just need to use the loo, first.” He kissed her again and went out of the kitchen.

                But John didn’t go to the loo. He padded down the hall, and instead of turning left, he turned right, into the laundry room.

                There they were: the sheets. The ones that Sherlock had slept in. He could see them through the dim hallway light, quietly rumpled in the corner. John went over and sifted through until he found what he was looking for—a pillowcase. He pulled it out and held it to his nose.

_Still a little left._

                John tenderly folded the case and bent down to open a cupboard, the one where Mary kept all the old towels they didn’t use anymore. He gently pushed them aside and reached to stuff the pillowcase all the way in the very back. He stared into the black hole, his heart aching with some kind of hurt that he still didn’t quite understand.

                After a moment, John stood up and returned to the kitchen for supper with his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might come back to this one later, but this was where I originally planned on ending it so I've marked it complete for now. Thanks for reading :)


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